The Finer Things
by Maple Fay
Summary: A response to a Tumblr challenge. What if Lord Grantham had a crush on Elsie when she first arrived to Downton?... Quite a bit of an experiment on my side.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** Once upon a time—or, to be exact, last week—I had an anonymous question on Tumblr, regarding the existence of Robert/Elsie fics, and the possibility of such a pairing._

_As since I found myself without any fics in progress, and looking for inspiration to write some more, I decided to give this idea a go. The challenge in its full form requested Robert having a crush on Elsie, and Charles being jealous over the fact. So here goes._

_Let me know if you'd like to see some more of it._

* * *

><p><strong>The Finer Things<strong>

Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, believed himself a _connoisseur_ of the finer things in life.

There was nothing altogether surprising about the fact. When one happened to grow up in Downton Abbey, home of all things exquisite, one learnt how to appreciate beauty and finesse of both inanimate objects and living creatures.

It started with the house and its contents—furniture, paintings, small sculptures and exotic plants adorning the rooms and corridor. Then there were the clothes, his and those of his family: perfectly tailored, made from the best materials and according to the newest fashion. Cufflinks, snuffboxes, ties and handkerchiefs: all of the accessories that, contrary to a popular belief, _did_ make the man.

Horses he enjoyed at their best, and dogs, too: graceful creatures with flawless pedigrees, impeccably kept and taken care of by professionals of the best sort.

And then, last but by no means least, there were the _women_.

He married Cora Levison not only for her money, but also for an image she'd planted in his head: this slender, dark-haired beauty walking through the corridors of Downton as its rightful lady, adding her natural charms to its splendid grandeur. Love to her came with time, and made her even more stunning to his eyes—a fact that he heartily approved of.

His daughters were amazingly beautiful to him from the moment they were born, and the fact managed to dim his disappointment at the lack of an heir. He watched his girls grow with love and pride, and by the time Sybil turned six, Lord Grantham came to believe himself one of the luckiest men in England. There was nothing else in the world he could have wanted, or hoped for. He lived in a great house, surrounded by a happy family, and many a beautiful thing.

His life was complete.

That is—it had been so until the warm, spring afternoon of 1902, when his butler opened the drawing room door, and announced in his deep, rich baritone, "Miss Elizabeth Hughes, the new head housemaid".

* * *

><p>He didn't know what he'd expected her to be—but whatever image he had in his mind, she surpassed it easily.<p>

She wasn't a young, fresh girl he'd got used to seeing around the house, no—she was closer to him in age, perhaps even a couple of years his senior. She held her head high, back straightened proudly; her hair, neatly pinned up, catched the glimmers of the afternoon sun that made it look like a halo of fire. Her blue eyes met his with confidence that had nothing to do with defiance: she was respectful, yes, but she also knew her worth, and wouldn't be deviated from the path she'd laid out before herself. This was a woman of character, of strength and strong moral backbone—and even in her black maid dress and a starched apron she looked more like a lady than many an aristocratic woman Robert came to know in the course of his life.

He wasn't sure what to say—fortunately, he didn't have to, not with Cora by his side.

"Elizabeth," she said with a smile, putting down the book she'd been reading, "Please come forward. Mrs. Reynolds has been telling me about your impeccable references—you were an under-housekeeper in your previous post, correct? This job must feel like quite a demotion."

"On the contrary, milady. I believe working in such a grand household shall prove to be quite a challenge, and I am looking forward to it."

Robert dearly hoped his feelings upon hearing her speak did not show on his face. _She was Scottish!_ And she spoke with a lilt that made him want to close his eyes and listen to whatever she had to say, as long as she didn't stop talking…

This wasn't good. He needed to control himself. Fortunately, he wasn't the only one affected by Miss Hughes' manner of speech: in all the years he knew him, he had never seen Carson look so mesmerized by a _housemaid_.

Even more the reason to stop thinking these ridiculous thoughts, he told himself. After all, he wasn't all that sure he'd survived a physical confrontation with an enraged butler, unlikely as such an occurrence might have seemed.

Cora was speaking again. What was that she said? Oh, yes: "I hope your wish will be fulfilled. Now, may we have some tea?"

"Certainly, milady," Elizabeth Hughes answered with a curtsey, and left the room to fetch the tea trolley. Carson remained, waiting for additional instructions.

Once again, Robert was saved from speechlessness by Cora, who seemed completely at ease, and not at all affected by the new maid. Robert decided he preferred it that way.

"She seems quite capable, doesn't she, Carson?" Lady Grantham's voice carried no actual interest in the reply as she reopened her book and laid back on the chezlong. The butler, Robert noticed with a typically male understanding of such matters, clearly thought that 'capable' was an understatement of Miss Hughes' qualities.

"I believe so, milady," he answered nonetheless, his face almost perfectly impassive. "Should she prove herself, I believe she might be a wise choice for a housekeeper after Mrs. Reynolds' retirement next year."

Cora nodded distractedly, her eyes fixed on the book. "Just what I was hoping for, actually. I wouldn't like to take on a _complete_ stranger, and Martha doesn't seem appropriate for the post, now does she?" Her question, most probably rhetorical, was left without an answer as Miss Hughes—funny how Robert couldn't make himself think about her by her Christian name, the way he did with other maids—reappeared with the tea trolley, and began to serve the tea, swiftly and silently.

The quality of the brew had obviously nothing to do with the person who served it: and yet, it was by far the best tea Robert has ever had in his life.

* * *

><p>He didn't speak to the head housemaid in the following two weeks. There was no reason for him to do so: if he had anything to communicate to the servants, he would do so by means of Carson or Mrs. Reynolds; and besides, after serving them tea on her very first day, Miss Hughes (again with the last name…) seemed to have been sent off to performing other duties, much more fitting for an under-housekeeper than a head housemaid. Mrs. Reynolds, a lovely woman as she was, seemed to be looking forward to her impending retirement, and made sure it was in a pair of extremely capable hands that she'd put the household in after leaving Downton to live with her niece's family.<p>

Robert found himself wondering what kind of a housekeeper would Miss Hughes make. She certainly seemed to be strong enough to carry the workload and the responsibility—but would she be good for the staff? Respectful for her peers? He liked to believe the answers to these questions would be affirmative, but apparently only time could tell.

As it was, his interactions with Miss Hughes were quite limited: until one fine Tuesday afternoon when, upon returning to Downton from inspecting some of the cottages farther away on the estate, he crossed paths with her by the gate leading to the main grounds.

She didn't see him at first, lost in thought, and it gave him a chance to observe her, unnoticed. She wore a deep-green coat and a sensible hat—definitely not something he'd fancied Cora putting on her head—and carried a rather heavy-looking parcel in her arms. Despite the burden, there was a spring in her step and a small, happy smile adorned her face—the kind that made Robert wonder what it was that she was thinking of.

He hurried over to the gate and held it open before Miss Hughes; only then it she notice him and startled a little, suppressing a small gasp that almost made him smirk. "Good afternoon, your lordship," she greeted him pleasantly, giving him a grateful nod as she passed through the gate. "Forgive me for not noticing you earlier—I must have been rather more distracted than I thought I was.

"No need to apologize; and a good afternoon to you too, Miss Hughes," he replied, closing the gate behind them. When he turned back to her, she was watching him with a quirked eyebrow: the expression that made him raise his own eyebrows in turn.

She quickly composed herself, casting a small, apologetic smile in his direction before adjusting the parcel in her arms and continuing on her way towards the house. "It's just… strange to hear somebody call me this, now I'm no longer an under-housekeeper," she explained herself briefly, her eyes fixed upon the Abbey looming in the distance.

Robert felt the strangest of emotions upon hearing her say that. He was feeling_ guilty _of making her uncomfortable: something he'd never in his life experienced in a relation to a servant. He cared about his subordinates, naturally—but he never held them such high a regard as to wonder whether his actions or words could be perceived by any of them in an altogether negative way.

"Would you rather have me call you 'Elizabeth', then?" he asked carefully, still amazed by his own bashfulness. What was it about this woman that made him feel like a schoolboy, caught in a crossfire of algebra questions?

She quirked her eyebrow again: he had to admit this kind of a facial expression, still polite yet bordering on cheeky, suited her very much. "I believe that, since you're the one paying me my wages, you're welcome to call me whether you prefer, milord."

_This_ he did not expect.

Was she flirting with him? Robert darted a quick glance at her profile and realized she was merely joking, her face carrying the same amused expression he'd noticed Rosamund sport many a time when they were teasing as children.

It should have offended him that his head housemaid thought of him in the same way his insufferable sister has—but wasn't she entitled to do so, in a way? She was older than him, confident and experienced in her job, and despite the fact that he was, rightfully, her employer, she seemed to be first and foremost her own mistress.

Not to mention that she was so very, very pretty…

Robert blinked in amazement, not quite recognizing the thoughts that formed themselves in his head. Did he really just think that? About a _housemaid_?...

"Milord?"

He snapped out of his reverie and looked back at her, in the blue eyes filled with slight concern over him. He couldn't for the love of God figure out what was going on.

"…I believe I shall stick to 'Miss Hughes', then."

_At least until I come to terms with all… _this_._

**TBC…?**


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** Oh my! You lovely people LIKE IT! I'm so glad!_

_I have actually devised a way to incorporate this story into the universe I'd set up in my 'Improper' series: the next instalment of 'The Most Improper Behaviour' should provide you and answer to this riddle. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter…_

* * *

><p>"Beth seems to be handling the job pretty well," Cora told him one evening, just as he was getting into bed.<p>

He frowned, pulling the covers up to his chest as he made himself comfortable. "Beth?"

Cora rolled her eyes and blew out the candle on her side of the bed. "Our head housemaid, of course. Honestly, dear, do you even _know_ we have a head housemaid?"

Oh, he _knew_. He knew very well indeed. "Forgive me. I got quite used to referring to her as 'Miss Hughes', that's all."

"Why ever would you call her that? She's not a lady's maid, after all."

"It's just… she's a little older than the other maids. Shouldn't we diversify the way we call them?"

"I don't see why we should. And I don't understand where you took that idea from. Perhaps you're just tired, Robert? Get some sleep."

Easy for her to say, Lord Grantham mused unhappily as he blew out his own candle and fixed his eyes on the ceiling above his head.

It's been a week since his short walk with Miss Hughes. After they got passed the name issue, she asked him about Mary, who'd fallen off a horse and sprained her wrist the day before; he, in turn, inquired about the family she'd left in Scotland, and listened to her happy chatter about her sister and two small nieces. Hers was a life he knew close to nothing about—and yet it felt as if he could see all the things she was talking about, brought to life by the soft tones of her voice.

She spoke of hardships and work, of difficulties he himself never had to face, and his respect for her grew immensely. Of course, the more rational part of his mind reasoned that, most probably, every single servant employed in his household had a similar story to tell—and yet it was _hers_ that caught his attention, unwillingly and wholesomely.

As he studied the dark, flat expanse of the ceiling and listened to his wife's quiet breathing, Robert Crawley, Lord Grantham, started to worry that he might have lost a little of his mind.

Or worse—his heart.

* * *

><p>It was on the following morning that he walked into the library, almost an hour earlier than he usually did, and found Miss Hughes standing on the highest step of an unsteady ladder, dusting the books on top shelves.<p>

She startled at the sound of his steps and turned her head to check the identity of the intruder: it threw her slightly off-balance, and the ladder shook dangerously…

Robert didn't know he'd moved, not until he was standing at the feet of the ladder, his left shoulder braced against the shelves and his arms full of the head housemaid, with her cheek resting gently against his neck as he held her close to his chest.

His head was spinning from the multitude of sensations he was experiencing at their contact: the unexpected softness of her skin made him think of finest silk—the warm, perfectly embraceable weight of her body next to his—the fresh smell of lemon coming from her hair, underlaced with something else, feminine and entirely _hers_—the soft, quick gasps of her breath as she struggled to calm herself down..

He had seen women more beautiful than her, more sophisticated, infinitely better attired, that much was indisputable. And yet, in some strange, indescribable way, this woman, who had clearly overcome her initial confusion and boldly met his eyes with hers, was their superior in every possible aspect.

Robert knew he should say something, or let Miss Hughes go, but he found himself completely at a loss as to how he should handle this situation. Should he ask her if she was alright? Speak her name? Her _first_ name?...

"Is everything alright, milord?"

He snapped out of his reverie, gently depositing Miss Hughes on her feet and stepping away politely. Only after he was sure at least a part of his confusion was gone from his face, did he turn to face the man standing by the door. "Naturally, Carson. Miss Hughes fell off the ladder; fortunately, I managed to assure she didn't get hurt."

The butler raised his eyebrows and took a step in their direction, his eyes fixed on Miss Hughes. "Is it true? Did you fall, Elsie?"

_Elsie!..._

He never would have thought about it on his own, but now that it has been spoken, he realized _this_ was the name that fit her perfectly. And he couldn't deny that he despised of Carson a little for being able to use it so freely.

"Yes, Mr. Carson, I did," Miss Hughes managed to adjust her clothing, straightening out some invisible wrinkles. "I surely would have broken my neck! Thank you for helping me, your lordship." She met his eyes again, her face a little drawn and distant, for which Robert couldn't blame her. He simply nodded and offered her a smile he hoped was reassuring rather than longing.

"In that case, go downstairs and ask Mrs. Reynolds to make you a cool compress until you recover," Carson's voice, vibrating with a sharp edge Robert has never heard before, broke the moment once more. "Send Martha up to finish here."

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Miss Hughes answered curtly and left, closing the door behind her.

It left the two men alone in a large, empty room that was, undoubtedly due to a happy coincidence, void of things than could have been used as weapons. Unless one counted several leather-bound volumes of encyclopaedia.

Carson was the first to speak, after clearing his throat pointedly. "Thank you for coming to the rescue, milord. We would all be very troubled if something happened to Elsie."

There it was again, the name! Robert had a feeling his butler was using it on purpose, and decided to test a theory that began to form itself in his brain. "You must be very fond of her," he remarked with a touch of stress in his voice, before adding: "She has probably made many friends downstairs."

Carson's face was an image of professionalism and composure. His eyes were not exactly so. "Elsie Hughes is held in very high esteem, milord. By all of the staff. She is an invaluable asset to this household, and I believe she could be staying with us for many more years—provided that there are no _accidents_ that would prevent it."

That was a very butler-like thing to say, Robert mused, keeping a sharp eye on Carson's impassive features. Fortunately, he had known Carson long enough to realize the other man didn't mean anything even remotely related to falling off ladders.

"I shouldn't think so," he answered, turning away from Carson and walking purposefully to retrieve a journal from a shelf in the corner—the very reason he'd walked into this room for in the first place. "She is a very capable woman, and as long as we make sure no external circumstances threatening her stability, she should do very well for herself. I trust in the infallibility of her judgment." He paused and turned back to Carson, tinting his voice with challenge just so. "Do _you_, Carson?"

"Certainly, milord." The other man's face remained completely calm, but from the gentle tick in the corner of his lips Robert understood that the challenge had been accepted. _Very well, then._

_Let the best man win._

* * *

><p>He sipped on his evening brandy, staring blankly into the dying embers stocked in the fireplace and frowning upon the fact that he and his butler clearly fancied the same woman. <em>How cliché<em>, he thought with amusement; had it been made into a drama, he would have left the theatre during the first intermission: but in real life, the prospect seemed infinitely more fascinating and complex.

Did he actually intend to pursue her? A maid in his own house, right under his family's—his _wife's_—nose? The first, spontaneous answer was: _yes, he did_. But did he have the right to?

The door behind him opened, and he frowned at the fire, not wanting to face Carson again this night, not even to tell him he wouldn't require a refill.

The quiet rustle of fabric told him, before the standing hairs on his neck did, that it wasn't, in fact, Carson that entered the room.

His mouth went dry, so he gulped down the last of his brandy and stood up, taking a moment to marvel at the way the red glow made her hair look like a crown of gold and rubies. "Is there anything I could help you with, Miss Hughes?"

Her gaze held his, unwavering, as she closed the door behind her and stepped into the room, until they were separated by no more than four feet of air.

"I believe we should talk, milord."

**TBC…**


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:** I wrote this chapter right after I posted the previous one, although I should have been working on another story. Please direct any and all comments in that respect to Frak, she who 'has such a way with words'. ;)_

_I'm not sure if any of you saw it coming, but this is the last part of this story. I could have dragged it out, but I was afraid of overdoing it: and anyway, some of the plotline will be back to haunt you in 'The Most Improper Behaviour', so you have that to look forward to! I hope you enjoyed it, but even if you didn't, I'd love to hear what you thought. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

><p>She stood before him, worrying her lower lip with her teeth—a gesture Robert found strangely alluring, especially in the low light—and for a minute he thought he actually had a better hand in all this.<p>

The idea flew away from him as soon as she spoke.

"Milord, I cannot even begin to thank you for what you did today—and I hope you wouldn't misunderstand me when I say I wish you _didn't_."

The grave, serious look she was giving him told him straight away that she disapproved—and the thing she disapproved _of_ was not of the state of ladders in Downton.

He sighed and turned away from her, picking up his empty glass and twirling it between his fingers for a lack of better things to occupy his hands with. "I see."

"No, I don't believe you do."

He all but jumped in his haste to get himself closer to her, the glass forgotten, slipping from his fingers and onto the thick rug. Now there was no more than a yard between them, and their eyes held, firm and strong.

"Would you care to enlighten me, then?"

She seemed to be weighing many different options up in her mind, before she finally reached out and squeezed his upper arm for the shortest of moments, pulling her hand away before Robert had a chance to grasp it. "Had I been ten, maybe just five years younger, I would have been terrified of your attention, milord—terrified, but _flattered_, too. And it would have been the end of me, of yourself, and of many things you care about much more than do you about _this_," she gestured vaguely at the air between them, "even if you do not believe it to be so right now."

He knew at that precise moment that she would make a great housekeeper, a surrogate mother to many a young girl, a woman standing silently behind the helm and steering this house into calm, safe waters.

But he also knew that, should he decide to continue pursuing her, she would simply turn on her heel and march off downstairs, and he would never see her again. She would be gone before the maids woke up the next morning, taking none of the money he owed her, no character, not a single thing that could have been associated with Downton.

With himself.

She knew he understood her, she must have known, but still she continued in a low, gentle tone, "And yet, luckily for everyone involved, I am _not_ ten or five years younger. I am who I am, and though I haven't seen a great deal of the world, I believe I know what would _really_ happen, were I any different. Were _you_ any different, for that matter, milord—for I do not believe you would wish any woman harm."

"You may not know me very well," he retorted, angry with himself, with that overwhelming pull he felt towards this woman: the need to touch her, to hold her, to converse and take council with her, to be a part of her life.

He _could_ be a part of it, should he make a correct choice. Not in the way his stubborn head believed him to be the best for them, but a part of her life as it was.

Her employer. The man who lives under the same roof as she, walks the same corridors, drinks the same wine—but is never _with_ her, only _next_ to her.

Or not at all.

She shook her head and reached out again, this time resting a hand on his shoulder in a silent gesture of reassurance. "I do beg to differ, milord."

She didn't protest when he took hold of that hand, brushed his lips against her knuckles and let it go gently, eyes fixed upon her face. "I shall make sure you won't have to change your opinion of me."

She nodded, visibly relieved, and took a step back, heading for the door. "Goodnight, milord."

"Goodnight, Miss Hughes," he answered softly, knowing with overwhelming clarity he would never be able to call her by her given name, should he wished to stay true to his words.

* * *

><p>Mr. Carson was waiting for her downstairs, just as she predicted he would. Suppressing a smile, she nodded at him politely and passed him by to go into the kitchen, knowing he would follow her anyway.<p>

He did.

"Have you forgotten something upstairs, Elsie?"

She liked the way he said her name in this deep, velvety voice of his, so she gave him a bright smile as she turned to him, pretending to _really_ notice him for the first time now. "On the contrary, Mr. Carson. I went to take care of something I _remembered_ very well."

He raised his eyebrows, clearly intrigued by her words. "And were you… satisfied with the way you'd taken care of said matter?"

He could be quite charming in that old-fashioned gentlemanliness of his, she thought as she poured tea for them both and sat down in Mrs. Reynolds' chair—a place he let her occupy after the housekeeper retired for the night. "I believe so."

Mr. Carson joined her, clasping his large hands around the teacup. The drank in silence for a while before he spoke again; his words could have been interpreted as completely disconnected from their previous topic of conversation, had they been directed to anyone but her. "His lordship is one of the best men I have had the honour to know."

She held his gaze with as much courage and will and she did Lord Grantham's, and smiled at him in a way Lord Grantham could only pray to have witnessed directed to him.

"Perhaps he is, Mr. Carson.

"But he is not the best man for _me_."

**The End**


End file.
